The Abyss Gazes Also
by fringegapkids
Summary: "Dad, it's me, it's Dean, I'm your son-" the werewolf said tremulously, raising his palms with a look on his face that nearly broke John's heart. "No, it's not." John choked out. "You-you're not my son anymore. You're a monster who looks like him." Title from Friedrich Nietzche. AU.
1. Chapter 1

The howl of a wolf tore through chilled night air.

Dean tightened his grip on the gun he was holding, his breath rising in misty clouds around him. _Damn cold. _he thought irritably, his fingers long since numb and red. _Makes everything seem like a fucking horror movie._ He silently cursed his dad for dragging him out on the hunt. In a much better world, Dean would be sitting on the motel couch eating pizza right now; in fact, that's probably exactly what Sam was doing right now, the lucky kid. Dean and his dad, however, had the bad luck to be out in below freezing weather at night in the woods tracking down an unusually vicious werewolf.

A few days ago, Bobby had told John Winchester of a werewolf that was savaging a town in the Appalachian mountains, hunting down people in the wrong place at the wrong time and ripping them into shreds. There had been over twelve deaths so far, all equally horrible. However, as far as Dean and his dad were concerned, there would be no more after tonight. Fortunately, the werewolf hadn't Turned anybody yet, so Dean and John didn't have to track down more than one werewolf. Unfortunately, the two hunters had to cover more than one hundred square acres of land to find the werewolf. His dad had suggested that they split up to cover more ground, and Dean had gone along with the plan. However, as Dean trudged through the night alone, he wished that he had chosen differently.

The frozen leaves behind him crunched, and Dean froze. Tightening his finger around the trigger of his gun, Dean whirled around.

Nothing. Only dark shadows and low hanging trees.

Dean cursed under his breath, hunching his shoulders forward. _I'm going crazy._ He thought to himself. He turned back around and nearly bit his own tongue off.

Standing in front of him, snarling, hackles raised, was the werewolf. The giant wolf's teeth glistened in the moonlight, its ink-black pelt rippling as its muscles bunched together. Dean whipped his gun up, taking a split second to aim, then fired. The gun spat silver bullets at the werewolf, burying themselves in the wolf's chest. The werewolf howled in pain and leapt at Dean, teeth bared. Dean jumped back, firing his gun all the while as the wolf twisted in mid-air to avoid the bullets, blood spattering the ground as it landed. Dean swallowed hard, knowing that there were only so many bullets he could fire. The werewolf seemed to know it, too. It backed away into the trees, eerie golden-green eyes gleaming in a furious rage as Dean shot at it, silver whistling through the air until-

_click._ The gun was empty. Dean's heart pounded. There was no use yelling for help; his dad was likely out of earshot, and even if he was, his dad would never be able to get to him in time. Dean raised the gun like a club, his palms sweaty. The werewolf paused, as if it could sense his fear. Dean's breaths sawed at the air as he slowly backed away from the wolf, as if it would help. The werewolf crept closer, taking two steps for every one that Dean took, eyes glimmering with triumph. Dean stumbled slightly as a pebble rolled under his foot -and as if sensing his momentary weakness- the werewolf attacked.

* * *

John Winchester trudged through the woods, the frozen leaves crunching under his boots. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as the eerie howl of a wolf echoed through the woods._ Enemy. Run._ His brain insisted, shooting pulses of adrenaline through his veins. John ignored the traitorous thoughts and continued walking, hands steady on his gun. He hadn't gone very far when the phone lodged in his pocket vibrated insistently, tearing John's focus away from the trees. He hastily tore it out of his pocket and flipped it open, not bothering to check who the caller was.

"Whoever this is, it better be important." He growled low into the phone, eyes flicking up to check the surrounding trees for threats.

"Dad?" His son's concerned voice emitted from the phone. "What's wrong? Are you hurt? Is-is Dean okay? What happened with the werewolf? I thought-"

"God, Sam, everything's fine. Relax. Why the _hell_ did you call me in the middle of a hunt?" John said, frustrated. "Is everything alright there?"

"I-yes, sir, everything's fine. It's just-"Sam stuttered.

"Just what, Sam, I don't have time for this, goddammit!" John hissed into the phone.

"Well, Bobby called a few minutes ago and he said that you would know what he meant by 'yellow-eyed demon,' but I could be wrong, he was talking really fast, and I-"

"Tell Bobby I'll call him back, Sam, but I'm in the middle of a hunt. I can't do anything right-"John snapped his head up. He had been distracted with the conversation with Sam and he had failed to listen to his surroundings, but now he heard it what he had missed clearly. Gunshots.

"Dad?" Sam's voice issued tinnily from the phone where John had lowered it. "Is everything-"

"I gotta go, Sam. I'll see you when this is over." John said hurriedly, snapping the phone shut and cutting off the call. He shoved the now-silent phone into his pocket and ran towards the gunshots, fingers tightening on the trigger of the gun.

* * *

Leaping at him faster than Dean's eyes could process, all Dean saw was a wave of black fur before the wolf slammed into him. Dean struggled to remain standing under the mass of the beast, trying in vain to hold the werewolf's maw away from him. The wolf snapped at his neck and Dean fell, the full weight of the werewolf on his chest. Agonizing pain shuddered through him as his ribs snapped like twigs under the wolf's weight, and Dean gasped in pain, his grip on the gun loosening and the only barrier between him and the werewolf falling away. Dean yelled in agony as the wolf's claws tore at his chest, ripping through his shirt and slashing his flesh with razor-sharp claws. Hot spikes of pain tore through him, and his grip on the werewolf's neck faltered slightly. The wolf ripped its head free of Dean's arms, pinning them beneath him with its paws. Dean's chest heaved as the wolf paused, rearing its head back to stare at him. Pain lanced through his body as the werewolf settled on his chest and Dean let out a strained groan, his body shuddering.

The wolf threw back its head and howled. The sound echoed through the trees, and Dean grinned weakly, tasting blood. _You stupid son of a bitch, you just led my dad right to us,_ Dean thought with a small amount of relief that disappeared as soon as the werewolf turned its gaze back on him. The wolf reared back, golden-greed eyes nearly overtaken by black pupils fixated on Dean's own-

and buried its teeth inside Dean's shoulder. Pure agony ripped through Dean's body and he screamed in pain, writhing underneath the werewolf as its teeth tore and snapped at his flesh. Blood bubbled in his throat, choking him and cutting off his agonized screams with a strangled gasp. Heaving for breath, Dean thrashed under the wolf as it tore into his shoulder. Darkness curled in the edges of his vision as Dean's struggles grew weaker, blood flowing from his shoulder and chest. He was on the brink of unconsciousness when he faintly heard gunshots fired, and the werewolf sagged against him, its jaws still buried in his shoulder. Dean's chest heaved, his lungs straining for oxygen where there was none, and he sank into unconsciousness.

* * *

John bolted through the trees, the sound of gunfire getting louder and louder with each step he took. He ducked under branches and jumped over those he could small twigs whipping into his face and hands. He could taste blood on his lips. He strained his ears towards the direction he was running in and registered two, three more gunshots, then deafening silence. Then he heard a hoarse yell that made his heart leap to his throat. _Dean. _John raced through the trees, everything else forgotten. His breaths were unfamiliar to his ears, jagged and harsh with fear. He stumbled to a stop, the lack of sound bringing him to the realization that he had no idea if he was going in the right direction anymore. "Dean!" He yelled, hoping that his son would answer. "Dean!"

Silence. Then, rising from a low whine, a long howl trembled in the air. John cursed once, loudly, and spun in the direction of the howl as it slowly faded away. Then, replacing the howl, an agonized scream rang out into the woods, abruptly cut off for reasons John feared with a feeling akin to the terror he felt at Mary's death. He ran for an interminable time, slowing down when the glow of his flashlight illuminated spots of crimson on the leaves. He followed the trail of blood through the trees, heart stuttering, stumbling to a halt when his eyes caught on a hulking mass of black crouched low over something lying sickeningly still on the icy ground. _Dean__. _John raised his gun, and, willing hi_s _hands to stop shaking, fired silver bullets into the beast's head and chest until it stopped moving.

John stepped forward cautiously, eyes locked on the werewolf. Satisfied that the wolf was dead, John ran towards his son's limp form, falling to his knees beside the blood-soaked body. With a strength that John didn't know he had in him, he rolled the body of the werewolf off of his son, the wolf's teeth emerging from deep inside his son's shredded shoulder, covered in blood. John leaned over his son's body, furiously willing himself not to cry. _This was supposed to be an easy hunt_. He sobbed inwardly, clenching his fists so hard blood ran down his palms. _Get in, kill the damn thing, walk out._ A tear dripped down his face, and he wiped it away angrily. It seemed to unlock something within him, and a sob burst free from his chest, loud in the silence of the night. John pulled his son's body into his lap, cradling it as if it were a baby. He could feel the drying blood stiffening in his son's hair, his limp fingers brushing against John's, his pulse-

John jumped, pushing his son away from him instinctively. _His **pulse**_? Dean's eyes blinked open, slivers of green in stark contrast to the crimson blood on his face. His fingers twitched.

"Dad?" Dean croaked, blood dribbling from his lips. "Dad-" he bent over, coughing. Blood spattered the ground, yet John could not move to help. His body seemed frozen in its position, a sickening feeling arising in his gut. His mind reeled, trying to deny the information. Dean was alive, but at what cost? John's eyes locked, seemingly of their own accord, on the wound in Dean's shoulder. _The teeth emerging from deep inside his son's shoulder, covered in blood._ He looked at the wound that seemed to be knitting itself back together, as well as the other gashes on his stomach, and he knew. He _knew._

Dean had been bitten.

Dean was a monster.

He recoiled from what had once been his son, fingers scrambling for his gun. _Monster. _John raised the gun, aiming it at the beast. His hands trembled.

"Dad?" The werewolf asked, bewilderment coloring his tone. "Dad, what are you-"

"Stay away from me!" John blurted out, his teeth chattering. He jerked the gun for emphasis.

"Dad, it's me, it's Dean, I'm your son-" the werewolf said tremulously, raising his palms with a look on his face that nearly broke John's heart.

"No, it's not." John rasped. "You-you're not my son anymore. You're a monster who looks like him."

"Dad, I-" the werewolf's voice broke mid-sentence. "I'm not a monster. I'm _Dean_." it pleaded, stepping forward.

John's finger tightened involuntarily on the trigger, and a silver bullet buried itself inside the beast's arm, propelling the werewolf a few steps back with a howl of pain.

"You're not Dean." he said once more, lifting the gun again. The werewolf flinched reflexively, fingers clutched tightly around his wound. "Just-just stay away from me and my family." The thing that had been his son looked as if he had been slapped.

"Dad, you can't, Sammy-"

"Don't you **_dare_** say his name!" John hissed, stepping forward threateningly. "Stay away from Sam. I can't- I won't kill you now," John's voice broke. "But if I _ever_ see you again, I'll shoot you without a second thought."

The werewolf opened his mouth, then closed it again. His fingers were trembling, John saw, a faint quiver that seemed to run throughout the beast's entire body.

"Run." John growled, tightening his fingers over the trigger of his gun. "Run, and never come back."

The werewolf ran.

* * *

Dean stumbled through the trees, tears stinging his eyes and his mind a blur of pain. _You're not my son anymore. Stay away. Never come back. You're a monster. Monster. Monster._ A sob clawed its way free from Dean's throat, choking him. He ran until he could run no further, and then he curled into himself on the frozen ground of the Appalachians, retching up blood and tears. The wounds on his shoulder, arms, and chest had mostly healed, knitting themselves back together with the healing speed of a werewolf. _Monster._ The gunshot wound on his left arm ached; the silver bullet had passed cleanly through his arm, but the burn of the silver remained. Dean lay on the leaves for what seemed like years, hugging himself with trembling arms, moving only to wipe tears away.

The sun had almost risen when Dean's stomach clawed painfully at him, reminding him that he still needed to eat. He struggled to his feet, the rational part of his brain noting that his wounds had completely healed, the only remainder a twisted white scar snaking across the golden-brown skin of his shoulder. _Monster._ He shuddered, trying to push away the memory of the night before. _You're not my son anymore. _Dean swallowed hard and stood.

A wave of dizziness swept through him, black spots dancing in his vision before fading away completely. He looked around and recognized nothing except the way he came from. Dean frowned. It was almost as if the world was in high definition. His vision was sharper, his nose was bombarded with unfamiliar scents, and he could hear things he had never thought of before, like the scratching of a squirrel climbing a tree, or the crunch of some rodent gnawing on bark. He could even hear the roar of cars on the highway that he and John had come from. _The highway was over five miles away._ A laugh escaped from him, distinct and loud among the woodland sounds.

_This is going to be so useful during a hunt. _The thought stopped him. _Hunting_. The laugh died out. He would never be able to hunt again. At least, not with his family. _Stay away from me and my family. _That part of him, that mindset screaming _'__protect your family'_ was over. And it would never come back.

Hunting had become more than a job, Dean realized. It had become his entire world, and now that it was gone, he didn't know what he would do with his life.

_Sammy_. The thought came, unbidden, into his mind. It steadied him. He needed to tell Sammy. Straightening his shoulders with a newfound determination, Dean started walking in the direction of the highway. From there, the motel.

* * *

John Winchester flung open the motel room door, arranging his face into an expression of sorrow. Sam's head whipped up, and he stared at John with wide eyes before relaxing a fraction of a second before he noticed something was wrong. His eyes flicking rapidly from John's face to the empty doorway behind him, his initial look of shock was quickly replaced with confusion.

"Dad? Where-where's Dean?" Sam asked hesitantly, closing the book he was reading.

* * *

John sagged in his chair with his hands on his temples, staring blankly at his journal, trying futility to block out Sam's heartrending sobs. John hadn't told the boy that his brother was a monster-he couldn't do that to him. Besides, if Sam knew, he would immediately go to find what he thought was still Dean-and he would hate John forever. The bond his sons shared-or used to share-was one that easily surpassed whatever love Sam had for John, and the boy would never forgive John. Never. So John kept his mouth shut.

_Where's Dean?_

_He-he's gone. The werewolf killed him._

_No- Dad- you can't- he's not- why didn't you stop it?_

_I tried. I got there too late. He was already dead._

_What happened to his-to his body?_

_There-there wasn't much left of him. I buried him._

_Did you-did you kill the werewolf?_

_Yes. We're leaving here tonight._

_What? But Dad-_

_I'm not arguing with you. We're leaving. And we're never coming back._

* * *

Dean opened the door of the motel and crossed the lobby in a few quick strides. He rang the bell at the desk, the high-pitched sound piercing. He grimaced in distaste. A harried, balding man rushed hastily to the desk, watery blue eyes catching Dean's.

"Can I help you, sir?" the man asked, holding a pen in his fingers.

"Hi, yes, I seem to have lost the key to my room." Dean lied easily, trying to look as embarrassed as he could.

The man nodded absently. "Can I see some I.D?" he asked.

"Yeah, sure." Dean replied. _Thank god for tight pockets._ He tugged out his wallet, still thankfully in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out his I.D card.

"Dean Johnson?" the man said, squinting at his card. "Room number?" the man asked.

"221." Dean said curtly. The man nodded, fingers moving across the keys of the computer.

"Oh-um, I hate to say this sir, but your room appears to have been signed out of." the man hesitantly said.

"What?" Dean started, hand dropping limply from the counter to his side. _I should have known._ he told himself, but that didn't lessen the pain of being left behind. _Don't come near me or my family. _He blinked when he realized the man was obviously waiting for him to say something. "I-I'm sorry, what?" Dean said, his voice cracking.

"Would you like to rebook the room?" The man repeated, a hint of exasperation in his eyes.

"Um, sure. I'll stay for a night." Dean said.

The man handed him the key.

* * *

Dean opened the door to the motel room and looked around the empty room.

He lifted his head. He could _smell_ them, he realized. He could pick up faint traces of beer, deodorant, and a _shitload _of sweat. But they weren't there.

The beds were stripped, the walls were bare, and nothing in the room had a hint of either Sam or John.

They were gone. And they weren't coming back.

* * *

Dean sat in the bar across the street, fingers toying idly with the half-full glass. _Run. Run, and never come back._ Well, Dean had come back, but his family had not stayed. They had left nothing in the hotel room, nothing but Dean's bag still stuffed under the bed he had slept in. _Thank God I hid my bag._ Everything he owned was in it-clothes, weapons, and a photograph of him and Sammy. All he had. _Stay away from Sam. _Dean downed the glass, the familiar burn of alcohol making his throat tingle. _I'll kill you._

A piercing pain shot through Dean's head. He choked back a grunt of pain, standing unsteadily. He nodded weakly to the bartender, who was looking at him inquisitively.

"You all right, pal?" the man asked.

"Yeah. I'm good." Dean gasped.

"Too much to drink?" the bartender asked wryly, wiping his hands with a stained rag.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess." Dean said, shaking his head to clear it.

"Well, you should head home. You think you'll make it there alright?" the bartender asked.

"Yeah. I'm just across the street, so I think I'll be able to walk there in one piece." Dean replied with a dry tone.

"Hmm. Well, it's a full moon tonight, so I'm sure you'll be able to see plenty fine." the man nodded, moving his attention back to the drinks.

_Full moon. _The thought cleared Dean's mind instantly, bringing along with it a sickening sense of horror. _Full moon._

* * *

Dean stumbled into the motel room, fingers fumbling for the lock. A bolt of white-hot pain shot through his head, and Dean clenched his teeth. He whipped open the curtains, staring out the window at the moon climbing over the slopes of the Appalachians. He backed away from the window, glancing around the room for anything heavy enough to drag in front of the motel closet. His eyes settled on the bed. He couldn't... could he? He half-ran across the room, seizing the bed by its base and pulling with a strength he didn't know he had. The bed moved slowly across the floor, leaving deep gouges in the wood where it had once-rested. Dean dragged the bed in front of the closet, looking warily at the moon as it slowly ascended. Pulling a bungee cord from his bag, he wrapped it around the bedposts and backed into the closet, pulling the bed with him until it effectively blocked off the closet. Taking a shaky breath, Dean closet the closet door in front of the bed and waited.

Around five minutes later, a searing pain shuddered through Dean's body, starting from the middle of his back and spreading outward. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into his palms. Pain coursed through his body, and he barely noticed as his shoes split open at the seams, revealing feet and ankles rapidly growing thick tufts of light brown-almost blonde fur. _Paws._ Similar tufts ripped through Dean's skin on his shoulders and arms, and his fingers seemed to shrink into his palms even as blunt claws forced themselves out. The force of the Change tore through him, and he screamed in agony as his spine elongated, forcing him to bend over on all fours as the joints on his arms and legs straightened with a sickening snapping sound. The last thing he felt was the agonizing feeling of fangs tearing through his gums before everything went black.

* * *

Dean woke up with a start. He struggled to his feet from his hunched over position on the ground, noticing absently that he was completely naked. Then he looked around. He was still in the motel closet, he noted with relief, but it didn't look much like the hotel closet anymore. Scratch marks were gouged into the walls, and the door sagged on it's hinges, a ragged hole torn through it. Strips of what used to be his shirt and jeans were strewn around the floor around him. Dean turned over his arms, looking for any remnant of what had happened the night before. No fur. He probed his gums with his tongue. Nothing. No fangs. He pushed the door open with a creak, moving the bed out of the way.

He sighed heavily, sitting on the bed and putting his head in his hands. _Monster._ He sat there for an hour, struggling to push back the feelings of revulsion and shame. This was who he was now. This was _what_ he was now, and nothing he could do would change that.

He stood unsteadily, grabbing his bag from under the bed. Leaving the motel room, Dean looked back at the damage he had done to the closet. A laugh bubbled up inside of him. He was stronger than he ever was, perhaps stronger than he would ever be- if he hadn't gotten bitten.

Paying the motel clerk, Dean headed across the street towards the bar. He would have a beer, and then he would try to track down his family. He pushed open the bar door and nodded to the bartender, who was in the process of serving a skinny woman with bright red lipstick, tattoos, and jet-black pigtails. Dean sat down next to her, and she turned to face him. Her eyes were a strange green-yellow. He grinned half-half-heartedly, not in the mood for flirting. She grinned back. Dean looked away, puzzled.

Something about her seemed..._off._ His newfound wolf instincts were on edge, telling him something that he couldn't decipher. The bartender handed him a beer, and as he reached for it, she laid a dainty hand on his wrist,. He sighed inwardly and turned back to her.

She grinned again, but differently. The fingers on his wrist prickled, and Dean glanced at them. They had grown _claws._ Dean jerked back with a suppressed yelp. _Werewolf._

"So," she said, her eyes gleaming. "When were you Turned?"


	2. Chapter 2

Sam Winchester sped down the highway in the Impala, pressing his phone to his ear.

"...Werewolf pack in the Appalachians, possibly the same pack where that werewolf came from a few years ago." John Winchester's voice came growling from the phone speaker.

"You mean the werewolf that killed Dean?" Sam asked bitterly. He had never forgiven John for Dean's death. _I mean, come on._ Sam thought to himself. _Was it really so hard to save Dean? You were supposed to be hunting together._

"Yeah. The pack is pretty much in the same location as it was when we were there two years ago. I'm seeing reports of over twenty deaths in the last year, all within a fifty-mile radius of the town we were staying at. You got that?"

"Yeah." Sam snapped the phone shut, ending the call. He glanced over at a photo on his dashboard. It was one of the last photos of Dean, taken at Sam's twentieth birthday party. Dean had his arm slung around Sam's shoulder, eyes glimmering with pride and happiness. He was happy. They were both happy.

And then two weeks later they had gotten the call from Bobby.

Sam sighed and looked back at the road.

* * *

About an hour later, Sam pulled up at the motel. He got out of the car and went around to the trunk, propping up the weapons cache with a sawed-off. He rummaged around, looking for the silver. Finally finding it, Sam loaded a few of the guns with silver bullets and put them in his bag, keeping a pistol. He slid the gun into his pocket, along with a silver knife, then closed the trunk and walked over to the motel.

He swung open the door, nearly hitting his head on the low doorframe. Walking over to the motel clerk, he gave a quick nod to a black haired, edgy-looking girl who was staring at him. She gave a half-grin in return, her green eyes sparkling. Sam turned back the the clerk.

"How can I help you?" the clerk asked, not looking up from his computer.

"Hi, yes, um, I'd like to book a room." Sam stuttered, slightly unnerved by the look the girl was giving him. An almost...calculating look.

"One night only?" the clerk asked, looking up.

"I think so. Might be more." Sam replied.

"Oh, um, okay, I'll see what rooms we have open." the clerk cast his eyes back on the computer, typing furiously.

A long minute passed, where the girl continued to openly stare at him. Sam looked back, unable to help himself. _She is pretty._ Sam thought to himself. _I guess it could be worse_. He was about to talk to her when she stood up abruptly, pushed back her chair with a sort of finality, and flounced out of the motel lobby, curls trailing behind her.

"We have a few rooms open. Do you have a preference? There's really not much difference between them, but each man to his own, I guess" the clerk's voice snapped him back.

"Uh, I'll just have your cheapest." Sam said.

The clerk nodded, looking unsurprised. "That would be...room 217, for a grand total of $87 a night."

"I'll take it." Sam said, digging into his wallet for the money. He could afford to stay for maybe a week, probably less. He had to wipe out this pack of werewolves fast.

* * *

Sitting in the motel room, Sam opened his laptop. Going onto several wildlife websites, he searched for wolves in the Appalachians, more specifically the Ridge/Valley province. He needed to know how many wolves were in the pack.

Fourty-five minutes later, Sam had almost nothing, save for the recent deaths. He would have to talk to the locals.

* * *

Sam walked into the bar across the street, ducking once more to avoid hitting his head on the door. _What is wrong with this town? Is everybody under six feet tall or something?_ Sam thought briefly. Getting a beer from the bartender, Sam sat down. Moments later, someone joined him. It was the edgy girl from the motel.

Sam looked at her inquisitively, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you stalking me?" the words flew out of his mouth before he could stop them. The girl laughed, even as Sam turned red.

"No, I'm not." The girl grinned. "I'm just...curious."

Sam felt his lips tug up. "About what?"

The girl's grin grew even wider. "Oh, nothing much."

Sam scoffed, about to reply when there was a loud clamor from the door. He turned his head to see what was going on. A small group of men-about the same age as he was-had entered the bar, all laughing and pushing one another. The girl looked too, and her eyes gleamed.

One of the men turned his head and saw them. He spoke a few words to the others and walked over to them, glancing at Sam briefly. The man held out his arms.

"What, no hug?" he asked, grinning broadly.

The girl laughed. "Come on, Jimmy, do we really have to do this every time we see eachother? We _live_ together for God's sake!" Even as she said this, though, she gave him a quick hug.

The man-Jimmy-looked at Sam, narrowing his eyes.

"Who's this?" he asked the girl.

"No idea." the girl answered brightly.

"Oh, um, I'm Sam." Sam said, answering Jimmy's question.

"Nice to meet you, Sam. I'm Jimmy, obviously. And this is Lindsey," he said, gesturing to the girl. "She's my sister."

Sam nodded, glancing back and forth between the two. _They don't _look _like siblings. _Sam thought. _In fact, they look nothing alike, except for the eyes._ They both had the same colored eyes; green-yellow. _They couldn't be werewolves...could they?_

"Well, it was good meeting you." Jimmy said after a pregnant pause. He murmured something to Lindsey that Sam couldn't hear.

"We have to go now." Lindsey said, smiling at him once more before whirling around to join the group that Jimmy had left. Jimmy hesitated before he left, green eyes wary and calculating as he gazed at Sam.

The group, now containing Lindsey, left the bar. Sam waited a few moments, then went after them.

* * *

Crouching behind one of the trucks in the parking lot, Sam watched as the group talked and laughed among themselves. They remained in the parking lot for several minutes, some with cigarettes dangling from their mouths, before leaving on foot. Sam crept after them, one hand on the hilt of the silver knife-not that it would do much good if all six of them decided to attack him at once. _If they were even werewolves._

The group left the road they had been on, following some sort of hiking trail through the woods. Chattering excitedly, Sam only caught snippets of the conversation.

"...practice cancelled..." "...terrible idea..." "...so pissed..." "...full moon..." "...fucking hunt tonight..."

Sam decided that that was evidence enough that they were werewolves, or evidence enough that they were not what they seemed. He slowly drew the gun out of his pocket and loaded it. He froze when the gun clicked, the mechanical sound loud in the silence of the forest. The group of werewolves immediately stopped talking. Lindsey raised her head, and from close proximity Sam could see her nose twitching. _She was smelling for him_. Sam raised the gun, even as Lindsey and the others backed away from his general vicinity. Lindsey said something to them in a low voice, and the men all _twisted-_ and suddenly Sam was faced with five wolves-and Lindsey. One of them howled, the eerie sound cutting through Sam. He shivered.

"Why are you following us?." Lindsey called softly.

Sam remained silent.

"What do you want?" Lindsey asked.

More silence.

Then, a breath ghosted across Sam's neck. He yelped, hands fumbling for his gun as he whipped his head around, yelping again when he came face to face with another wolf. The wolf-werewolf-was actually kind of beautiful, Sam noted, if you ignored the fact that it was about three hundred pounds of death. It had light brown fur, almost golden, and its eyes gleamed green. Of course, all these observations occurred to Sam as he stared, petrified, at the wolf.

The wolf blinked, then backed away into the forage. Lindsey and the other wolves followed.

Sam let out the breath he didn't know he had been holding.

* * *

Lindsey closed the door behind her as she walked into the house she and the rest of the pack lived at. Several heads turned at the soft click, some human, some wolf, all obviously in the midst of several conversations. She nodded to them in greeting. One of the wolves -a small, dusky brown she-wolf with auburn ears- stretched luxuriously, slender legs twisting, before rising to join Lindsey.

_Where were you? _The question was unspoken, communicated to her with a flick of the ears and a slight tightening of the muzzle. _We were playing charades. Massive game. Very intense._

Lindsey laughed. "Who won?" she asked, amusement coloring her voice. Some of the wolves flicked their ears back in response to the sound, but they continued their conversations.

_I believe the answer should be obvious. He wins _every _time._

Lindsey smiled. "Well, not every time. I think Frank beat him once."

_Once, yes. But he cheated. It doesn't count. _The wolf tossed her head, tail whisking back and forth.

"That depends on if you count accidentally breaking down the door as cheating." Lindsey said, lips curving up.

The she-wolf was spared from responding when one of the wolves rose, ears twitching.

_Sarah, can you excuse us for a moment? I need to talk to Lindsey._

The she-wolf nodded and went back to the other wolves, her figure rippling as she changed form in mid-stride, and she plopped down beside the others as a short girl with big eyes and brown hair.

Lindsey turned back to the wolf. "Alpha." she said by way of greeting, dipping her head. The other wolf nodded back distractedly.

Lindsey's eyebrows drew together slightly. This wasn't like him. Usually, he corrected her, saying that 'Alpha' was an honorific that he didn't want. Lindsey and some of the other wolves persisted though, out of habit. The old pack leader hadn't been as familiar with the pack, always insisting that they call him 'Alpha,' or 'Sir.' Lindsey liked the new pack leader much better. He was kinder, gentler, and he treated the pack like family. He laughed with them, played with them, and hunted with them (and played charades with them. He _always_ won._Always_.).

Today, though, he was different. His shoulders were drawn tightly, his tail drooping slightly. He seemed worn, tired, and very stressed.

_What did you see?_ The wolf flicked his tail.

"He's still here, but he's not doing much. Mostly on his laptop. He went to the bar a couple times, asked some questions about the pack. He was talking to Frank and Patrick last time he went, but I highly doubt they told him anything, unless he threatened them." Lindsey tossed her head. "He better not have."

The wolf seemed amused. _I highly doubt he threatened them, unless he's changed drastically since I last saw him._

Lindsey furrowed her brow. "You know him?"

The golden wolf's shoulders slumped.

_He's my brother._

* * *

Dean lazed idly on the couch, flipping idly through channels on the TV as his pack chattered around him. He had changed back to his human form. Jimmy had opened a twelve-pack, and he and some of the other legals were drinking the beer. Dean sighed inwardly. They never learned.

"Jimmy," Dean called as the twenty-two year old reached for another beer.

Jimmy looked up guiltily, fingers dropping back to his side.

"One." Dean said firmly, holding up a finger to punctuate his words. "You too, Pete. We don't need another situation like the one that happened last June, yes?" The other boy nodded, his curly black hair bobbing. Dean shuddered inwardly. The pack had tried to move on from the June fiasco, but some things you just don't forget, no matter how hard you try.

_Sam._

Dean remembered vividly the stark fear on Sam's face as he crouched in the woods. The bitter smell of gunpowder had barraged Dean's nose, bringing along with it a crushing sense of sorrow. John Winchester had obviously refrained from telling Sam that Dean had been Turned, and Sam most likely believed Dean was dead.

And now, Dean couldn't tell Sam the truth. If he told Sam that he was alive, Sam would go straight to John and demand answers, answers that John wouldn't answer. Dean didn't know what John had told him, and he didn't know what John would do if Sam confronted him, but Dean had a pretty good guess. John would jump in his truck, pack some silver, and drive to the Appalachians to kill Dean's pack.

Dean couldn't let that happen.

There were fourteen werewolves in his pack, not including him. Lindsey, Jimmy, Sarah, Gerard, Mikey, Ray, Elena, Frank, Jenna, Pete, Patrick, Brendon, Ryan, Ashley...Dean couldn't abandon them. They were his family now. They had taken him in when he was alone and desperate, and they had trusted him completely. He couldn't leave them. They needed him, and he needed them.

The majority of the pack was under thirty, except for Spencer, who was thirty-two. Most had been Bitten -like him- and had run from their families in fear of hurting them, but Lindsey, Ashley, and Patrick were second or third generations. Lindsey's family had been killed by hunters, Patrick' by another pack, and Ashley had been forced out of her family -not because she was a werewolf, but because she was lesbian. She was dating Sarah now, actually, and Dean hoped that they would be happy with each other. God knows they had picked the short straw everywhere else in life.

But none of them had been driven from their homes at gunpoint.

Dean had dreamed about that night maybe a million times since then, and every time he had woken up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath. He tried to keep his strangled gasps quiet, knowing that the majority of his pack might hear them, and he knew that if they were sleeping in wolf form, like Patrick and Lindsey often did, they would _definitely_ hear him.

_Lindsey_. She was the first werewolf he had met after that night, and the first to invite him into her pack. He thought about their conversation in the bar (the first of many) often.

_When were you turned?_

_Um- I- Uh- I don't know what you're talking about._

_I'm a second generation, personally -my parents were werewolves too. But you seem a bit new at this whole 'Changing' thing. Let me guess, you barricaded yourself in a motel closet?_

_I-what?__ How did you know that?_

_One of my pack members -Gerard- he did the same thing for a loooong time before we picked him up and told him the right way to do it._

_How?_

_It's kind of complicated. See, the place where my pack used to live used to be a mental institution back in like, the 1940's, so we've got about fifty padded cells in the basement, complete with timers that open the doors automatically. So basically, every full moon, or when we want to play a prank, we hit the timer for fifteenish hours, jump in (or push someone in), and lock the door behind you. Completely wolf-proof. Great, right?_

_Yeah, actually, that's pretty clever._

_Yeah, the old pack leader -the one that basically started this pack- came up with the idea like fifteen years ago. He was going to try to get the word out to other packs around the world, but, well, he died._

_Died? How?_

_Another werewolf killed him._

_Oh. I'm sorry._

_Don't be. I didn't really know him that well. He was just another pack leader, you know? They come and go all the time._

_Come and go?_

_Well, pack laws say that an Alpha becomes and Alpha when he (or she) is chosen by the pack, or becomes pack leader by combat._

_By combat?_

_Yeah, it doesn't usually happen much, but sometimes a rouge werewolf comes along and challenges our pack leader._

_What happens then?_

_The two wolves basically just fight to the death, no weapons save for tooth and claw allowed. Winner takes all._

_Why don't you guys -the rest of the pack- just slaughter the challenger if you like your current pack leader?_

_We can't. Pack laws say that it can only be the two of them._

_Oh. So your new pack leader won by combat?_

_Yeah. Just between me and you, I don't like him that much. He's kind of an asshole._

_That sucks._

_Yeah, well, he'll probably skip town in a year or so. Rouges don't usually stay for very long. Or maybe one of us will challenge him. Either way, he won't be here long._

_That sounds surprisingly like a threat. You planning on killing him in his sleep?_

_No, I just strongly suspect that he'll leave after you show up._

_Me?_

_Yeah you, I mean look at you. You're big, strong, and you've got a hell of a jawline. Very intimidating._

_What? No -I mean you sound like you think I'm going to join your pack._

_Well, are you?_

_I don't know. I don't really have many plans for the future as of now._

_Oh. So, you were turned pretty recently._

_Yeah. Yesterday._

_Yesterday? You mean -last night was the first time you Changed?_

_Yeah._

_That's rough._

_Yeah._

_I'm sorry._

_What for? You weren't there._

_No, it's just -my pack and I have been trying to hunt down the bastard that's been killing people. We didn't know he'd turn anyone._

_It's not your fault. Besides, he's dead now._

_Dead?_

_Yeah my dad killed him._

_Your dad killed -oh. Oh. You're a hunter._

_Was a hunter. Now...I don't know what I am._

_That's easy. You're one of us. Come on, I'll introduce you to my pack. We can all have a picnic in a field of flowers and share the bloody carcass of a cow. It'll be fun._

_What?_

_I'm just joking. Mostly. But I'm serious about this: you should meet my pack. I swear, you'll like them. They're great people. Well, werewolves. You know what I mean._

Lindsey had been right; Dean had liked the pack. They were funny, and smart, and they had accepted him for what he was. So Dean stayed.

Lindsey had been right about another thing, too; about a year after Dean joined, the pack leader -Mark- had skipped town for good. It had come down to the pack to elect a new pack leader, and Dean had been the overwhelming favorite, with Lindsey coming in second. She didn't mind though; she had never wanted to be pack leader.

So Dean led.

He had named Lindsey as his Beta, or second in command, as she was the Beta when Mark led, and she was good at it. Many members of the pack (namely Jimmy, Patrick, Ryan, and Ashley) had expected them to form a relationship, as many Alphas and Betas did, but Dean didn't try. Lindsey was like a sister to him; he wouldn't even think of dating her. It would be kind of weird.

A crash jerked Dean out of his thoughts, and he looked at Patrick and Frank, who had flung open the door. They both had enormous grins on their faces and were laughing.

Dean lifted an eyebrow. "Were you guys just at some secret orgy that I wasn't invited to? I knew I wasn't popular."

Patrick and Frank grinned at him.

"We were at the bar, talking to that hunter who came yesterday." Patrick said, breathless. "He's your brother, right? Sam? He kind of smells like you."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Sammy." he replied, his voice cracking.

Lindsey leaned forward. "What did he say?"

"He just asked us some questions, like if we had seen any wolf activity or knew of the deaths of the campers that the rouge werewolf is killing." Patrick replied.

Dean nodded. There was a rouge werewolf roaming the Appalachians near the town; the pack was planning to go hunt it down and kill it next week. The deaths had only started a few weeks ago, but there were a lot of them. This particular rouge wasn't only killing on the full moon -at least five of the deaths had been during the half or crescent moon, which showed that the werewolf knew exactly what he (or she) was doing. Dean needed to end it, fast. "What did you tell him?"

"We told him that we had heard of the deaths but we didn't know much about them. The usual stuff." Frank said as he removed the brown contacts he had in. They couldn't risk Sam discovering that he was a werewolf.

"Good." Dean nodded. "If I know him as well as I think, he's probably going to stay for a while, so just stay out of his radar, okay guys?" Dean said, addressing the whole pack.

"Especially now that he's actually seen us and knows we're around." Brendon added.

Ashley looked up. "We could tell him about the rouge werewolf; he's a hunter, so he could probably help us." she said, lifting a hand to brush her hair out of her eyes.

Gerard flicked his tail, ears twitching.

_I don't know. This is kind of a werewolf problem, right? If we take on the rouge werewolf with him he might get hurt._

Lindsey nodded. "Yeah."

Jenna tightened her muzzle, turning her wide green eyes to Dean.

_Well, it's going to be pretty easy, right? I mean, there are fifteen -sixteen, if Sam joins us- of us, and only one rouge werewolf. We could do it with our eyes closed._

Dean laughed. "Nice try, Jenna. You're too young for this. I don't wan't you to get hurt. And that goes for everyone else under eighteen, okay?" Dean said, looking hard at Ashley. "No sneaking after us."

There was a chorus of groans, but nobody argued.

Pete nodded. "So, there will only be nine of us. Ten, if Sam comes. Still pretty easy."

Lindsey considered this. "I still don't want to take any risk with a -somewhat- unfamiliar hunter. You never know, he could get hurt and go ballistic. It's not unheard of. Some hunters out there will use any excuse they can to kill a werewolf."

Elena lashed her tail.

_We're monsters to them._

* * *

Sam Winchester sat at the table in the motel room, puzzling over what had happened the day before.

_Why are you following us?_

_What do you want?_

From what Sam had seen of Lindsey and Jimmy, they didn't seem like cold-blooded killers. They seemed nice, and were welcoming enough, if a little wary (but that was to be expected; Sam suspected both could smell the gun he had in his belt). Neither did the group they were with seem vicious and cruel, just a little too drunk and a little too loud.

They seemed normal.

Could the werewolf with the gold pelt be the killer Sam was looking for? Sam considered it briefly before dismissing the thought. _No._

That werewolf had seemed different from the others. It could have killed Sam easily, and no one in the town would have missed him. Instead, though, the werewolf let him live. It had seemed almost...nice. Maybe Sam didn't have to kill it, even though it was a werewolf.

Sam scoffed. He knew what his dad would say to that.

_Kill first, ask questions later. It's a monster. It's not like you or me or anybody else out there._

_It's not human._


	3. Chapter 3

Sam closed his laptop with a snap. _Nothing_. There were no reports on the deaths, no accounts of wolves in the area, and nothing tangible to link the two. It was almost as if someone had destroyed it all. He sighed, looking out the window at the inky-black night sky, and stood up. He needed to take a walk, clear his head some.

Stepping out of the motel, Sam glanced at the bar before heading towards a small park he had seen on his way to the motel. Walking along dark sidewalks illuminated by puddles of light from street lamps, Sam thought about calling John. If there was ever a case where Sam needed some guidance or even some helpful tips, it was now. _If Dean was still alive-_ Sam cut the thought off before it could go any further. He had stopped letting himself think about what Dean would do if he was still here. It hurt too much.

Arriving at the park, Sam sat down at a bench facing the small grove of trees. He sighed heavily. When had hunting become so...tiring? He was tired of running, tired of hiding, and tired of killing. If John were here, he knew, he wouldn't have hesitated to kill Lindsey and the other wolves. He wouldn't have sat there, petrified, as a werewolf stared him down. John would have killed it in a split second.

But Sam...Sam didn't regret a thing. He didn't want to be a killer.

He didn't want this life.

A blood-curdling scream pierced Sam's ears, and before he knew it, he was halfway to the grove of trees with a gun in his hands. He warily approached the trees, fingers tensed around the trigger.

Then, the sickening sounds of crunching and tearing. _Eating_.

Sam sped up, approaching the sounds carefully. His eyes could make out a dark shape in the trees, bent over something on the ground. _A body_. Sam whipped the gun up, and the shape -the werewolf- raised its head. Sam could see its eyes glinting in the moonlight. Sam fired without hesitation, silver bullets flashing towards the wolf.

They never reached their target. The werewolf leaped off of the body and ran faster than Sam's eyes could follow, its lean wolf frame reduced to a blur of brown. And then it was gone.

Sam turned back to the body on the ground and felt like he was going to be sick. There was blood everywhere, painted across the grass like a crimson tide. Sam took a shaky breath. This was _his_ fault. He should have noticed the werewolf, should have gotten there earlier.

And now it was too late. The body was a young girl, maybe fourteen or fifteen. Her legs and chest were almost completely shredded, her flesh torn to ribbons. Her hair was matted with blood, a look of pure fear and agony still etched onto her face. Sam felt bile rise up in his throat and he turned away, pressing a hand to his mouth.

His mind flashed back years ago, to a small motel in the middle of nowhere.

_Where's Dean?_

_He-he's gone. The werewolf killed him._

_No- Dad- you can't- he's not- why didn't you stop it?_

_I tried. I got there too late. He was already dead._

God...this must be a fraction of what John went through. To see your own son lying dead on the forest floor, knowing that if you had been just _that_ much faster, you could have saved him...

Sam shuddered. Then he shook his head. He couldn't dwell on that. Not now. He had to go after the werewolf, had to stop it from attacking more innocent people.

Sam tore his small flashlight from his jacket pocket and ran in the direction that the werewolf went, following the droplets of blood on the leaves.

* * *

The trail stopped. Sam had been following the path that the werewolf had taken, led first by crimson spatters, then just wolf prints. But it ended here. At least a mile from the town, in the middle of the woods. It stunk of 'trap,' but Sam had no choice but to walk straight into it.

He sighed, shining his flashlight into the surrounding trees. The place he was standing seemed to be at the top of a hill, and the surrounding woods sloped down, away from him. Of course, there was nothing in the trees. What good would it be to lie in wait for someone in a place that was easy to find? Much more fun to let them think you were gone and then jump out at them and-

A huge weight crashed into Sam with a growl, knocking him over and sending his gun and flashlight spinning away. Sam yelled as razor-sharp claws dug into his sides, sending pain lancing through his body. A hulking mass was leaning over him, and from the light of the flashlight that lay near him, Sam could see fangs still red with blood. The werewolf snapped at him, and Sam struggled to hold the fearsome maw at bay.

Abruptly, the weight vanished, and Sam leaped to his feet, his ribs protesting.

The werewolf was about a hundred feet away from him, struggling to stand. Sam backed away and walked straight into something that hadn't been there before. He whirled around.

It was another werewolf. Pretty small, compared to the one that had just attacked him, but a werewolf nonetheless. Its green eyes gleamed in the moonlight, focused on Sam.

Sam raised the knife, but the wolf was already gone. It leapt at the larger werewolf, a low growl trembling in the air. The larger animal stood just in time to meet the other in a hurricane of flashing claws and teeth. Sam swallowed. An instinctual fear rose inside him as he watched the two beasts fight. He looked around for his gun, and saw it lying next to a tree. He dove for it, and was about to wrap his fingers around it when he was knocked backwards, his hand pinned underneath a paw. He looked up, straight into the green eyes of a third werewolf. This one was even smaller than the second, and by the light of the moon he could see the glint of its fangs. Fear rose up in him, almost choking him, as he waited for the werewolf to kill him.

It didn't.

It blinked at him, ears flicking back as the low growls and yelps of the two battling wolves continued to fight. The largest werewolf -the one that had attacked him- was losing; it was being pushed farther and farther into the woods with each vicious swipe from the second werewolf. Soon, it turned tail and ran. The remaining wolf howled, high and wailing, and the sound echoed through the forest.

Sam took a shuddering breath. His heart hammered at his chest, and he clenched his teeth to keep them from chattering. The wolf closest to him shifted its weight and sat, muscular haunches less than an inch away from Sam's leg. It seemed to be waiting, but for what?

The night dragged on.

* * *

After an interminable amount of time, the sun began to rise, and by the light of dawn he could see what the werewolf was waiting for.

A pack. _Its_ pack.

Werewolves slunk out of the shadows of the woods. Sam's eyes strained, struggling to see from his current position on the forest floor. He could see eight, nine wolves emerge from the trees, all with different color fur that shone in the meager sunlight.

Sam's breath caught in his throat.

The wolf that he had seen the previous night was standing a few dozen yards away from him, its golden fur turned to bronze in the sunlight. Its green eyes were fixated on Sam, burning with an emotion that he couldn't read. In the light of day the wolf was even more intimidating, its lean muscles bunched under a rippling ocean of gold fur. Sam met the wolf's gaze for several long seconds before its green gaze slid smoothly behind him. Sam let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and looked in the same direction.

The werewolf that had chased off the other stood from its solitary position, tail flicking side to side. Giving a sort of nod to the gold wolf, it shuddered, the movement rippling down its spine until before Sam stood a young girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old with short blonde hair. Blood matted several of the strands together, and her teeth were dyed a gruesome red. She grinned ferociously at the pack.

"Found him." she said lightly. Was she talking about him? Or the werewolf that she had chased off? Sam had no idea. The wolf sitting next to him didn't move, although its tail flicked back and forth.

The dark werewolf next to the gold-pelted one stepped forward, its body changing form mid-stride so when it halted it was human.

_Lindsey._

Lindsey tossed her head, ink-black curls gleaming under the sunlight.

"Ashley." she said in a disapproving tone.

The blonde -Ashley- had the grace to look slightly abashed.

"You were supposed to stay at home. So were you, Sarah." Lindsey continued, shifting her piercing green gaze on the wolf next to Sam. The wolf dipped its head and stepped off Sam, obviously following some unspoken command. Sam shot to his feet, his breathing unsteady. He could see it now. He looked at Lindsey's too-sharp gaze to the unnatural way she held her body, and he _saw_.

She wasn't human.

_Monster_.

Sam swallowed, every nerve in his body crying out to run. His mind whirled at a sickening speed, and he could feel panic setting in.

"Who are you?" Sam's voice rose.

Lindsey looked at him. "We're the Appalachian pack. Well," she amended, tilting her head, "part of the Appalachians. Fourteen of us couldn't manage the whole thing. We just live in this part. The Valley part."

Sam blinked. "Fourteen?"

Lindsey nodded. "The under-ages were _supposed_ to stay at home." she said with hard glare at the Ashley and the wolf next to Sam. Ashley grinned again, and the wolf next to Sam merely twitched its ears.

Sam's chest heaved. "Are you the pack leader?" he asked Lindsey.

She laughed, the peal of mirth ringing out into the woods. "No, no. I'm just the Beta. Second in command."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "So who's your pack leader?"

Lindsey hesitated, eyes flicking to the gold wolf, who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Him." she finally said, gesturing to the gold pelted wolf.

Sam met the gold wolf's green gaze, and once again noticed the burning emotion that he couldn't quite place. "I want to talk to you." Sam said. "Not your 'Beta' or whatever it is."

Lindsey frowned, looking a little insulted. "He'll only speak with you if he wants to. And he doesn't."

Sam let out a shuddering breath, and his fingers found the silver knife at his belt. "Then I'll _make _him speak with me."

Lindsey's eyes widened in alarm, but before any of the wolves could do anything he had grabbed the wolf next to him. He held the silver knife to its throat. He could feel its heart pounding.

"Change." he growled, low into the wolf's ear. The wolf's ear twitched and its whole body shuddered, and before Sam knew it he was holding a tiny girl by the throat. She gagged, and Sam gripped her arm instead, still keeping the knife close to her neck. Ashley let out a ferocious, inhuman growl and started towards Sam, but Lindsey held up a hand.

Lindsey stepped forward. "Sam," she began.

Sam jolted back. "I want to talk to your pack leader."

Lindsey looked at the gold-pelted wolf and looked back at Sam. "I can't-"

Sam tightened his grip on the girl and pressed the knife down on her neck. Beads of crimson blood bloomed from the pale skin, and the girl gasped in pain.

Lindsey looked at Sam with an expression of cold fury and started to say something, but the gold wolf cut her off with a flick of his tail.

It stepped forward, green eyes hard.

And suddenly, Sam was facing his brother.

_Dean._ "Dean." he said, the words dropping off of his tongue.

Dean gave him a lopsided smile.

"Hey, Sammy."

* * *

Sam stared at his brother, everything else forgotten momentarily.

Dean was alive.

_Dean was alive._

"You're alive." The words slipped out of his mouth. "But Dad..."

Dean's face hardened. "Let's not talk about that now. Let go of the girl, Sam. She's fifteen."

Sam looked at the girl he was holding. She probably just reached five feet tall, and her whole body was trembling. A sickening sense of horror rose in him. _What have I done?_

The knife slipped out of his fingers and dropped to the forest floor, stained with blood. The girl wrenched out of his grasp and half-ran, half stumbled to Ashley, who wrapped her arms around the girl protectively. Her furious eyes burned into Sam, and he looked away.

"Oh God." he heard himself say. "Oh my God." The world spun, and suddenly he was falling.

He never reached the ground.

Arms caught him before he hit the ground, and he looked up to see Dean's green eyes on his.

"C'mon, Sammy, get up." Dean said.

Another head entered Sam's vision. Lindsey.

"It's probably just shock." she said to Dean. "I mean, it's gotta be pretty hard to wrap your head around the fact that your dad lied to you and your brother's a werewolf."

_Werewolf._

Sam's head cleared. He struggled out of Dean's arms, and he stood unsteadily.

"Dean, I-" he started.

Abruptly, all of the werewolves twisted their heads towards Sam's left. Dean's face blanched.

"Sam, you've got to-"

He was cut off with a howl as a massive shape barreled into him, snarling and lashing out at Dean with gleaming claws.

Sam blinked in shock, and suddenly he was faced with two wolves. The gold wolf -Dean- recovered from the attack and launched himself at the other wolf, and they disappeared in a whirlwind of biting teeth and tearing claws.

After what seemed like a split second, the other werewolf had pinned Dean to the ground, its massive jaws clamped around the gold wolf's throat.

Lindsey let out a high whine of rage and threw herself at the werewolf, changing mid-leap and knocking the rouge werewolf off of Dean. The two wolves rolled with the force of Lindsey's leap, and they disappeared from Sam's view as they tumbled down the slope of the mountain.

The pack of werewolves raced in the direction of the two battling wolves, but Sam stayed behind.

He knelt at Dean's side. There was a gaping wound in his throat, but as Sam watched, the flow of blood appeared to slow and the wound seemed a little smaller, a little shallower.

Dean coughed and struggled to prop himself up on his elbows "Sam."

Sam's breath hitched. "Dean. Dean, you're hurt."

Dean shook his head. "I'm fine. Werewolf, remember? I'm a superhero."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. Yeah, you always were a superhero to me." he choked out.

Dean looked surprised. "Sammy, I-" he cut himself off as realization dawned on his face. "Lindsey" he struggled to his feet.

Sam struggled to keep up as Dean raced through the forest, blood spattering the leaves behind him.

He slowed to a stop when a dark mass came into view, blood pooled on the leaves around it. The rouge werewolf's eyes were wide and unseeing, jaws open and fangs smeared with blood. A high keening noise echoed around the forest, and it took Sam a few seconds to locate where it came from.

Sam's breath caught in his throat. _Lindsey._

The girl he had seen on his first day here -the girl that had led him to Dean- was lying very still on the forest floor. Blood soaked the ground around her like rain, and her neck was canted at an odd angle. Her chest was torn to ribbons. Dean was already rushing to her, and the pack parted like water to let him through. Several had tear tracks on their faces, but there was anger, too.

Dean dropped to his knees next to Lindsey.

"Lindsey." Sam's brother said gently, almost tenderly.

Lindsey's dull green eyes slid to meet Dean's, and her lips curved up, red lipstick now bloody and dark.

"Hey, Dean." her breath rasped out of he throat. "Guess this is it, huh?"

Dean shook his head. "Lindsey, you'll be okay. You're a badass. This...you can survive this."

Lindsey laughed, the sound harsh and wheezy. "I'm dying, Sherlock."

Dean swallowed. "Yeah." he said quietly.

Lindsey nodded slightly. "At least I...killed it."

A tear slid down Dean's cheek unstopped. "All by yourself, Lindsey. You saved me. You've saved me over and over since I got here, and I never really thanked you."

Lindsey's eyes were far away. "No...chick-flick...moments." she rasped, blood dripping out of her mouth and staining her ashen skin.

Dean smiled, his eyes full of tears. "No chick-flick moments." he agreed quietly, his hands moving a blood-soaked strand of hair out of Lindsey's face. "But you did save me. Thank you."

Lindsey smiled tenderly, and her eyes clung to Dean's like a lifeline.

There was silence.

Sam swallowed.

Breaths fogged up the air.

Then, with a huff, Lindsey moved her head almost imperceptibly in a nod of finality. "See you on the flip side." she whispered.

And then she was gone, her eyes still locked with Dean's.


	4. Chapter 4

Sam stood silently beneath the shadow of the funeral pyre as Dean and the other werewolves grieved for Lindsey. Any hope he had of bringing Dean with him, away from here, disappeared as he watched Dean talk with the pack -_his _pack-, murmuring in a low voice and maneuvering gracefully through the huddled mass of people with a few casual touches -a brush on the arm, a comforting squeeze on the shoulder, et cetera. Sam knew Dean well enough to know that he didn't like to touch people other than family (or very close friends, lovers, or people he wanted to punch in the face), so when he saw Dean bend down to hug a young boy who looked like he was fighting back tears, Sam knew he had no chance at convincing Dean to leave. Three years is a long time, especially when you live every day not knowing if it's the day you die.

Sam was dragged out of his thoughts when he saw Dean and a few of the other pack members gently pick up Lindsey's body. Placing gingerly it on the pyre, the other werewolves step away as Dean flicked open a lighter. The small flame flickered for a few moments before Dean threw the lighter on the pyre. Flames blossomed around the lighter, licking up the side of the pyre until the whole thing was wreathed in flames. In the light of the fire, Sam could see Dean struggling to hold back tears. It wasn't working. As the first tear began to slip down Dean's cheek, Dean shuddered, fur rippling over bare skin, and Sam was once again faced with the gold wolf. The other pack members followed his example, and as they began to drop down to all fours, Dean raised his head and let out a high, keening howl. Sam's breath caught as the other wolves echoed him, their howls climbing into the sky. The sound stirred something in Sam, a kind of wild longing and grief. A part of him wanted to tip his head back and howl with them, but that would be completely ridiculous. He settled for breathing shakily and digging his nails into his palms.

They remained that way long after the half-moon rose into the sky.

* * *

Dean rose from his sitting position, flicking his tail to signal that the others should do the same. The fire had long died down, only a few burning embers remaining. His hind legs protested as he stretched them, still sore from the fight. His pack followed him as he trotted into the house, some changing to human form, some remaining wolves. Dean looked back to see if Sam was following them. He was, his head lowered and his feet dragging. A half formed memory flitted through Dean's mind, of Sam doing the exact same thing as Dean led him to his second-grade class after yet another move. Things were simpler then.

The pack settled into the living room, grief still present in red-rimmed eyes or drooping tails. Sam hovered uncertainly in the corner, but when Dean flicked his head towards him, Sam crossed the room to perch on the couch arm next to Dean's sprawled form. Dean whisked his tail, sending it deliberately into Sam's face. Sam spluttered and his hands rose to bat away Dean's tail. Ashley flicked her ears in amusement, as did Sarah. Dean allowed himself a brief rush of affection before growing more serious.

_While we can never replace Lindsey as a pack member and a friend, _he said with a flick of his ears and a tense of his shoulders, _we can at least honor her memory by making her successor a good one. While I trust all of you in keeping the pack safe, some of you are too young to be Beta, and I know that at least half of you don't want the position. But who does?_

Brendon, Pete, Patrick, and Gerard each raised their heads or hands respectively. Sam looked completely lost. Dean hesitated momentarily before changing into human form, so Sam would understand. Shock flew briefly across Sam's face before it settled once more into confusion. Dean leaned over.

"We're choosing a new Beta. Second-in command." he murmured quietly to Sam. Sam nodded, a short, quick jerk of the head.

"So... voting." Dean said. "Whoever's chosen, no hard feelings, yes? We're all family here." Dean glanced over as Sam shifted, an unfamiliar emotion gleaming in his eyes.

"I thought werewolves fought over this kind of thing." Sam said quietly, obviously thinking that only Dean could hear.

Frank looked amused. "Well, we could," he said, his lips curving up into a smile. "But we prefer not to fight to the death when we could settle it peacefully. We're not barbarians."

Sam looked like he wanted to sink through the floor. "I-I, um-" he stammered.

Dean smiled. "It's fine. It took a while for me to get used to the insane hearing too. Also the sense of smell. You don't know awkward until you walk into a house and everybody immediately knows exactly where you've been, who you've seen, and what you've been doing."

Gerard scoffed. "Or _who_ you've been doing." he said with a smile.

A short laugh slipped out of Sam's mouth.

Dean waved away the embarrassment. "Yeah, yeah, ha ha. _Anyway_..." he said. "We've got to pick a Beta. So, you all know the rules. Voting, majority rules, et cetera."

The pack nodded.

* * *

Sam watched as Dean effortlessly chatted with his pack, talking easily to people and wolves alike. Sam was completely lost on what the wolves were saying. A flick of an ear or a twitch of a tail could mean anything from "Hi" to "I want to kill you." Sam had no idea what was going on, but Dean obviously did. It made Sam uneasy, knowing that each and every one of the werewolves could easily rip him to shreds at any given moment, and Sam would have absolutely no warning. He tightened his grip on the silver knife at his side, ignoring the accusatory looks of some of the werewolves.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

_Dad_.

Sam didn't know what he would say to John. _Hey, what's up, why did you lie to my face and say Dean was dead when he was here the whole time?_

He looked up when he realized that the entire pack was looking at him. Heat crept up Sam's face. Gerard lifted his eyebrow.

"I-um-excuse me. I, uh, need to take this." he stumbled over his words as he backed out of the room, hitting his head once again on the low door. He heard a low murmur come from the group of werewolves, and he was sure his face was bright red.

He walked away from the house until he was sure they wouldn't be able to hear him. Then he ripped the phone out of his pocket and pressed it to his ear.

"Sam?" John's voice came growling from the phone.

"Dad, hey, um-"

"Did you kill it?" John interrupted Sam. Sam ignored the slight twinge of resentment. His dad was always doing that, as if he didn't care what Sam had to say. He probably didn't.

"Well, no, _I_ didn't, but it's dead." Sam cringed. He should have thought that out more. Sure enough, John jumped on it.

"_You_ didn't kill it, but it's dead." John's voice was flat, almost mocking. "Who killed it?"

"There was this girl, she-"

"You got upstaged by a girl? A _girl_, Sam? She had better be some kind of super-human, cause I certainly did not raise you to-"

Sam's fist clenched. "She was a werewolf, Dad, and that's sexist." his voice rose. "She was part of a pack."

Silence. "Sam-"

But Sam wasn't hearing it. "Part of a pack. A _good_ pack. And guess who's part of that pack? Guess who's leading the pack?" he almost yelled into the phone.

More silence. "Sam, look, I-"

"**_Dean_. **Dean's _alive_, and he's leading the pack. You told me had been killed by a werewolf. Dean, my **_brother_. **" Sam spat.

"Sam, look-" John began.

"No, Dad, you look." Sam yelled. "I thought Dean was _dead_ for three years. Three _fucking_ years, Dad! And all along he was here, in the same goddamn town we stayed at last time. Why the _hell_ did you tell me he was dead?"

John's voice exploded out of the phone. "_**Because he's not human, Sam!**_" Sam could hear him breathing heavily. "He's a monster, and he and his pack are going to kill you first chance they get."

Sam's heart pounded. "He's not the monster here, _Dad._" Sam hissed into the phone before snapping the phone shut.

* * *

Dean watched, amused, as Sammy stumbled out of the room. Frank smirked as he hit his head on the low door.

"He's kind of cute." Frank said thoughtfully, cocking his head. "I could go for that."

Dean looked at Frank. "What? You- what? Oh, no. _No_. You are not going anywhere near my little brother, you hear me?" Dean said, pointing at his. "You're going to corrupt him."

Frank's grin widened. "Guilty. However, if he's lived with you for most of his life, he's probably _already _corrupted..."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Okay, _okay._ We've got to get on with this, guys, or we'll never have a Beta."

The pack sobered. Gerard, Patrick, Pete, and Brendon stood, Pete and Brendon on four legs and Gerard and Patrick on two.

Dean nodded. "So, you all know the deal. I'll get the hat."

When Dean returned with the outrageously large cowboy hat they used for votes and such, the rest of the pack had already grabbed slips of paper or rocks. Any object within grabbing distance, really. They weren't picky.

Dean passed the hat to Patrick. "This is for Gerard. Put your rock (or paper, or whatever) in the hat, and I'll count it up." Pack rules said that the Alpha, Dean, couldn't attempt to sway the pack towards any individual, so that meant he couldn't vote. Anyone competing for the Beta (or Alpha) position could vote as well, but they couldn't vote for themselves. The universal laws of any group, classroom, or pack.

The pack passed the hat around, some placing their objects in, some not. When the hat came to Dean, he took the objects out and counted them as the hat went around again for Patrick. They did this two more times for Brendon and Pete, and by then Dean had a pretty good idea who the pack favored.

When the hat came to him a final time, Dean counted, then put aside the objects. The pack looked on apprehensively.

With a flourish, Dean tossed the hat onto Patrick' head. "I present to your new Beta." Dean hooted as the pack crowded Patrick, a flurry of congratulations and exclamations, Gerard, Pete, and Brendon's voices the loudest and the happiest. There were no hard feelings; everyone was proud of Patrick. Brendon and Jenna disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a giant cooler of beer. Ashley immediately perked up and the under-ages looked plaintively at Dean.

Dean sighed. "Fine, fine. _One_. And none of you are leaving the house for 24 hours until the beer is out of your system." Ashley cheered.

Sam walked in in the middle of the chaos, looking completely bewildered as he walked in and almost got hit with a flying Doritos bag. Dean looked at him. The skin around his eyes was tight. He was obviously angry at something. Dean beckoned him over, and Sam sank gratefully into the couch. Ashley pressed a beer bottle in his hand. She was already a little drunk.

Dean raised his beer bottle, and the pack mirrored him. "For Lindsey. And for Patrick."

The pack cheered, and the chaos resumed.

* * *

John Winchester threw his guns into his trunk.

_Dean's alive._

John tossed his entire package of silver bullets into the cache.

_He's leading the pack._

Three knives went into the trunk.

_He's here, in the same town we stayed at last time._

He grabbed the map of the Appalachians.

_Dean's alive._

John got into his truck and drove away.

* * *

Sam watched the party from the couch, his fury slowly ebbing away, although sharp stabs of anger still tore at him. He could feel the vibrations from Dean's laughter through the couch, and the sound brought him back to years on the road, fighting about his obnoxious songs or sitting on the beds in a motel room laughing at a stupid commercial on the crappy motel TV. He hadn't heard Dean laugh for a long time.

A hot spike of resentment stabbed at Sam as he realized that years of grief could have been avoided had Dean told him that he was alive. He immediately felt guilty about it, but he couldn't deny the thought. He felt a light tap on his shoulder and he looked up, straight into Dean's startling green eyes. They were narrowed slightly.

"You okay, Sammy?" Dean said lightly, but Sam could hear the worry tinging his brother's voice.

"Um, yeah, why?" Sam arranged his face into one of slight confusion and amusement. He could see from the tightening of Dean's mouth that it hadn't quite worked as well as he had hoped.

"You seem a little...stressed." Dean said quietly, his eyes flickering briefly down. Sam looked in the same direction and realized with a faint feeling of surprise that his fists were tightly knotted into the couch pillow, the whites of his knuckles in stark contrast against the light brown spattering of freckles on his fingers.

Sam looked up and realized that the pack's conversations had stopped, and they had turned to look at Dean and Sam.

"Can we-can we talk somewhere else?" Sam asked quietly, warmth creeping up his neck.

Dean's glance flicked momentarily to his pack and then he nodded. "Sure."

Sam stood awkwardly and nodded to the pack, though he was sure it looked more like a spastic jerk of the head to them. Dean followed him, stopping only to say a few words to Patrick, who had half-risen.

Once they had gotten outside, Sam stopped.

"Dean, what were-" Sam cut himself off as Dean shook his head.

"Not here," Dean said quietly, gesturing to the house. "They can still hear us."

Sam sighed internally but nodded, and followed Dean until he had determined that they were out of earshot.

"Okay, so what is it?" Dean asked, leaning against the wall of a building. "You're obviously angry at something; you reek of it."

Sam drew in a breath. "What?" He felt distinctly uncomfortable knowing that Dean could _smell_ him.

Dean waved off the question. "Nothing. Werewolf thing."

Sam narrowed his eyes. _Of course._

Dean sighed. "What?"

Sam threw his hands out. "It's just- it's just all of this shit!" he half-yelled.

Dean blinked. "All of what?" he asked, a hint of steel in his voice.

"All of-all of this werewolf stuff." Sam scrambled for words.

Dean's face tightened, and he rose up off the wall. "I'm sorry Sammy, you're going to have to be more specific. Is it the pack? The rouge werewolf? Lindsey's death? Did my pack do something that precious Sammy didn't like?"

Sam's throat felt constricted, and his fingers felt rigid at his sides. "Don't make this about me." he said his voice a hoarse whisper, full of barely contained anger.

Dean's eyes flickered. "Then what is this about?"

"It's just-" Sam struggled to find words.

Dean narrowed his eyes to green slits. "Just _what_, Sammy?"

"You." Sam finally said. "It's you."

Dean reeled back, an unfamiliar emotion on his face. "_Me?_ What did I do?"

Sam stepped forward, the tangled lump of anger and hurt loosening. "**You didn't come back!**"

Dean's face turned to steel. "You think it was my fault? You think I wanted to leave?"

Sam's fists clenched. "I don't know what I should think! All I know is that three years Dad walks in and tells me that you were _dead!_ And then one day you show up, a fucking _werewolf,_ obviously perfectly fine! I mean, what the hell am I _supposed_ to fucking think?"

Dean's eyes blazed. "Well, gee, I don't know, Sammy, maybe 'thank God my brother's alive?'"

Sam's fist twitched. Dean looked steadily at Sam. "What, are you going to hit me now?" he said mockingly.

Sam leaped forward with an animalistic roar of rage and pinned Dean against the building wall, his fingers tight around Dean's arms. A low growl thundered from Dean's chest, and Sam pushed down the thrill of fear that arose in him.

"**You fucking left us! You left_ me. _And you didn't even leave a fucking note!**" Sam yelled, ignoring the pricks of pain in his sides as Dean's nails -claws- dug into him.

Dean snarled, revealing sharpened canines._ F__angs._ "You think this was my fucking choice? You think I _chose_ to get attacked in the middle of the night by a werewolf?" Dean yelled. "I didn't ask for my fucking father to treat me like I was a monster. I didn't _ask_ for him to chase me out of my own family at fucking _gunpoint._ I didn't ask for him to shoot me." Dean's voice broke on the last words.

Sam felt like he had been punched in the gut. "Dad-he what?"

Dean's shoulders slumped and the claws digging into Sam's ribs vanished. "He-nothing. Nothing."

Sam's breath left his body. "He _shot_ you?" he said, his voice barely audible.

Dean swallowed, and his eyes shone with years of shame and anger and hurt. Eyes that told Sam his answer.

Sam's grip on Dean faltered and his legs seemed to move of their own accord, away from Dean. Dean slid down the wall to sit on the darkened ground, his arms wrapped around himself as if he were in pain. Sam moved to sit next to him and Dean flinched, curling in on himself and shrinking away from him. Sam had never felt worse in his life. His mind whirled with a million thoughts, and his stomach felt like someone had kicked him. A few moments passed before Sam knelt on the ground, only a few steps away from the brother he thought he had lost.

* * *

They remained that way underneath the light of the half-moon, for a long time before a soft sound broke the silence. A shaky breath shuddered through Dean's body, and Sam realized that Dean was struggling not to cry. He recognized the choking gasps that brought back memories of pain and betrayal and hurt. Sam hesitantly placed a hand on Dean's shoulder and the soft black shirt moved under Sam's touch, revealing the beginnings of a twisted white scar that disappeared under the shirt.

"It's where I was bitten." Dean said quietly, so quiet Sam almost missed it. "That night, in the woods."

Sam moved to cover the scar up. "Do you-do you want to talk about it?"

Dean gave a sort of half-snort half-sob. "Sure Sam, we can have a sleepover and do each other's nails and talk about _feelings." _he spat.

Sam rolled his eyes. _This_ was typical Dean. "I'm serious. What happened that night? It was supposed to be a normal hunt, right? Nothing too serious." he said, trying to sound casual.

"Yeah."

"So what happened?" Sam pressed.

A few quiet seconds passed before the reply came, soft and low. "Well, we got out there and Dad decided that we should split up, because there was a lot of ground to cover, you know? So we went our separate ways, and I was being stupid and wasn't paying enough attention to what was going on. Cue werewolf, and some terrible hand-to-hand, and then I was lying on the ground trying not to get my throat ripped out. Obviously it bit me, and then Dad came. I don't really remember much after that."

Sam was quiet, trying to digest the information before speaking again. Dean was obviously lying. "You said he shot you and chased you away." he said softly.

Dean scoffed, the sound full of hurt and pain. "Yeah, well, I screwed up, almost got us both killed. I'd have shot me, too."

Sam shook his head. "Dean, it wasn't your fault. It was Dad's, for leaving you."

Dean shook his head, but the movement was weak.

Sam kept talking. "What did he say to you to justify shooting you?"

Dean's breath hitched. "He said-he said that I was a monster. That I wasn't his son anymore."

Sam felt a sharp stab of hatred for John, along with a pang of sadness for Dean. Dean had idolized the man, tried so hard to do whatever John had told him to do, so to be told that he wasn't his son anymore...

"Why didn't you come to me?" Sam asked quietly.

"At first, it was because -because Dad said he would kill me if I talked to you." Here, Sam opened his mouth, but Dean cut him off. "That didn't really affect me for too long, but after that...for a long time it was because...I didn't want to see you and have you look at me the same way he did. Like I was a monster." Dean's voice broke, and his shoulders slumped.

Sam reeled. "Dean, I would- I would _never_ think that. _**Never.**_ You know that, right?" he said, almost pleading.

Dean sighed. "Yeah. Well, I thought I knew Dad, too." Dean lifted his head to meet Sam's gaze, and Sam could see the pain of old betrayals etched onto his face. "But at least I was wrong. You still look at me- like I'm human."

Sam smiled. The phone call he had made to John still itched in his mind, but he pushed it away.

"You are. You're Dean. You're my brother, and you'll always be human to me."


	5. Chapter 5

Sam bolted upright in bed as a howl sliced through the night air, followed by three more. Fear coursed through his veins, sending him scrabbling for the gun under his pillow before he remembered where he was.

He was in a house.

Filled with werewolves.

With _Dean_.

Unlike his father had contemptuously suggested, werewolves did not in fact sleep with one another; they all slept in separate rooms, and one (a boy about Sam's age, who had earlier been doing shots with Pete and Mikey) had let Sam use his room to sleep in after Sam got his stuff from the motel. The walls were completely covered in old action movie posters, and, ominously, several mounted deer antlers. Upon entering the room for the first time, Sam had been struck with the thought that the boy who slept here had probably caught the deer himself.

Now, though, Sam nearly impaled himself upon the gigantic antlers placed on the wall behind the bed. Ignoring the shooting pain on his scalp, Sam bolted to the window, where several gigantic wolves -werewolves- leapt and tussled in the small clearing behind the house that led straight to the wilderness of the Appalachians. As he watched, one threw back its head and let out a piercing howl that seemed to vibrate in Sam's body.

"They're getting ready for a hunt."

Sam whirled around, reflexively raising his hands in a defensive position before he recognized the person leaning against the door. "Patrick." he said curtly, startled and unnerved by the fact that the man -boy, really- could sneak up on him without him noticing.

Patrick nodded his head slightly in acknowledgement before crossing the room to meet Sam with long, graceful strides that made absolutely no sound against the hard wood floor of the room.

"What are they doing?" Sam said without thinking.

Patrick didn't seem bothered by the redundant question. "We're about to go on a hunt. The under-ages usually get pretty excited, so Dean usually sends them out to work off some of the energy before we head out, so they don't spook the prey." Patrick said easily, not even faltering at the word 'prey.'

A scene from a documentary he had seen years ago flashed through Sam's mind: a pack of wolves, snapping and tearing at an elk's bloody hindquarters as it ran from them. He suppressed a shudder and met Patrick' unnatural green-blue eyes. "What's a hunt?" He couldn't stop himself from asking.

Patrick cocked his head. "Once or twice a month, usually around the half and quarter moon, we all go out into the mountains and hunt. It helps to get all the 'kill kill kill' wolf instinct out all at once, so we're not antsy and uncomfortable. It's also a good way to kind of bond or whatever; if we can all work together flawlessly to bring down a moose or a deer, we can do a lot of things together that we normally wouldn't trust each other to do."

Sam blinked. "Like what?" he asked.

Patrick didn't even hesitate. "I would completely trust any of the pack to help me in any situation, even life or death -even though it usually doesn't come to that. Like, any of the girls would feel as comfortable talking to any of the guys as they would another girl about horrible disgusting girl stuff. And everybody knows how girls get about their periods. We're like family. Closer, even. They're like the ultimate best friends I've always needed and would never be able to get rid of, even if I wanted to. Which I don't."

Sam nodded absently, but his mind was elsewhere. _What if Dean doesn't want me here? What if I ask him to come back and hunt with me -and he says no?_ Sam had been thinking about trying to convince Dean to leave his pack to go with Sam again, but he hadn't considered how close Dean was to his pack. And from what Patrick was saying... Dean's friendship with the pack was almost -if not as- strong as the relationship he had with Sam.

"What do you do when you hunt?" Sam asked, glancing out the window again at the three or four wolves.

Patrick followed his gaze and the corners of his mouth turned up in an affectionate smile. After a momentary pause, he answered Sam. "We usually go out pretty late at night, and then Ashley and Brendon track down some sort of large animal -deer, moose, oxen, whatever. When they find one, they come tell the rest of the pack, and we split up and try to surround the animal of choice. Then, at a signal from the Alpha -Dean- or the Beta -me-, we run it down and kill it. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn't. There have been a few that get away."

Sam nodded, digesting the information. "What do you do once you kill the animal?" he asked, curious.

"We eat most of it there, and we bring the rest home to eat later." Patrick answered, seemingly unruffled from Sam's many questions.

"You _eat _it? Raw?" Sam blurted, aghast. When he realized how he had sounded, he wanted to stuff his foot in his mouth.

Patrick blinked. "Yes. It's not a problem for us to digest raw meat." he said, a little tightly.

Sam could only nod. He didn't know how to respond.

Patrick' head turned slightly as another howl rose from the wolves, and he shifted his weight, beginning to back away towards the door. "I've got to go now- I came because Dean sent me to see if you were okay." Patrick said. "He was with Sarah, checking the ranger activity." he continued, answering Sam's unspoken question. "We can't risk getting caught."

Sam watched him leave, then sank into his bed, pulling out his phone.

_Three missed calls. One voicemail. _The notifications blinked against the screen, followed by John's phone number.

Sam ignored it and put the phone away.

* * *

John Winchester sped down the road in his truck, tapping his fingers irritably against the steering wheel. The abnormally bright light of the moon shone down on the hood, reflecting into his eyes, causing him to have to constantly blink and rub them.

It was not a good day. Driving from Oklahoma, it had taken John about two days of continuous driving to finally get to the mountains where he had stayed three years ago, and he was not a happy camper.

His phone remained completely silent, despite the calls to Sam. John felt another spike of anger at his son's stubbornness, but he pushed it down. He could deal with Sam's insubordination when the time came. For now, though...he was only about half an hour away from the town he had stayed at for the hunt before.

He was broken out of his thoughts when he heard a chorus of yelps and faint barks coming from the woods on either side of the road. He tried to ignore it, but the sounds only grew louder.

And then, a howl.

High and wavering, the eerie wail rose and fell to the right of his car, and John slammed the brakes of his car as a deer pelted across the road, trailed by two blurs of gold-brown and black. Several more shapes lurked in the shadows of the woods, but none approached John's stopped car. There was complete silence as John struggled to make out the shapes in the woods, but it was too dark.

A high-pitched squeal pealed out from the woods, followed by the sounds of a sickening thump and heavy dragging. John remained in his car, frozen in shock and -he hated to admit it- a little bit of fear, as the black blur he had seen reappeared at the edge of the woods left to the car, just close enough for the headlights to illuminate it. John's breath caught in his throat and his fingers clenched into fists around the wheel.

It was a wolf.

Less than 5 meters away from the car, the beast was dark brown and massive, its lighter muzzle stained with what John assumed was blood. Its wide, tufted ears were swiveled towards John, and its wet nose was twitching.

Then John saw its eyes.

Gleaming in the moonlight, its unnatural green-blue eyes looked like gemstones against the contrast of its dark brown fur; a green that no wolf in nature had.

Werewolf.

As John scrambled for the gun in the glove compartment, the second wolf -werewolf- that he had seen, the gold-brown one, melted out of the shadows of the woods, dragging the carcass of the deer he had seen not five minutes ago. There was a jagged gash torn out of its throat, and its doleful brown eyes stared unseeing at John. The monstrous werewolf carrying it looked directly into John's eyes, its own green orbs burning into John's. John pushed down the lump of fear solidifying in his chest, and he closed his hands around the gun, still keeping eye contact with the gold-brown werewolf.

When John was about to pull of the gun and fire it at the werewolves, the gold-brown one flattened its ears, and the two on the left hand side disappeared into the woods. The rest of what must have been their pack faded into the tree line at the right as well, disappearing from view.

John cursed loudly and scrambled out of the car, still tightly gripping the gun and a flashlight that he had scooped up. His harsh breaths grated into his ears as he ran into the woods, shining the light at the ground, following the spatters of deer blood and giant paw prints that marked the ground. He strained to catch a glimpse of the pack, but the trees ahead of him revealed nothing. The woods were completely silent except for his own jagged breaths.

He had been running only for about ten minutes longer when the the paw prints veered left, deeper into the forest. John pushed himself to run faster, following the tracks intently until he almost flung himself off a cliff. Stumbling to an abrupt stop, his feet sent rocks and dirt tumbling down into the thirty-forty foot drop that separated him from the the woods on the other side of a ten foot drop. The body of the deer lay a few feet away from him.

John suppressed a yell of frustration and turned back after scanning the surrounding brush, trudging through the trees resignedly back to the road. As he came within sight of his black truck, a faint, off-distance howl trembled in the air, almost mocking him. John bit back another curse and opened the door, slamming it shut once he got inside with a resounding sound of metal-hitting-metal.

It was not a good day.


End file.
